


Saw That One Coming

by Catchclaw



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Time, Fluff, Forest Sex, M/M, PWP, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The moment, when it comes, isn’t what Derek expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saw That One Coming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_jenblu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_jenblu/gifts).



> For jen, by way of a means of cheering. Also: I really like porny fluff. So: for you.

The moment, when it comes, isn’t what Derek expects.

It's not that he thought the sky would rip open or anything. That the ground would crack, or something like that.

But it's the middle of a Tuesday and the earth is warm and damp and it's freaking sunny, for crying out loud, and nobody's trying to kill them.

It's weird.

"Um," Stiles croaks, his voice searing Derek's hands. "Dude. Could you—?" 

He wiggles, lean spaghetti twitch over Derek's chest as he shifts, gets their legs even more tangled. The heels of his hands rock in the dirt, crushing leaves under his palms as they scrabble beside Derek's shoulders. The Ziploc bag he'd insisting on bringing to carry the freaking hawthorne they still haven't managed to find, it's trapped under his knee, plastic flapping like crazy as his breath rivers down Derek's face. Stiles' elbows are shaking with the strain and there's an earthworm in his hair, but his face is turned up, his body one giant smile.

When Derek kisses him, again, they'll both grinning like jackals. 

They’re stacked like cordwood in some random corner of the forest, and it’s odd, the way everyday life is just tweeting around them as they touch, like this is totally normal, and it’s so far from what Derek would've predicted, what he'd thought his first kiss with Stiles might be like, that it's kind of fucking fantastic.

If somebody was close enough, he thinks, turning Stiles' head in his hands, they'd smell it on him, his surprise. See it pouring out of his skin.

Not everything is completely novel, though. 

For instance: the way the kid thrusts when Derek gets a hand in his belt, his fingers snagged in leather and denim. When he yanks Stiles up just enough, that much further, so their hips meet and Derek gets in a good grind—yeah, that seems about right. He totally saw that one coming.

But the way Stiles' arms collapse, then, the way he gulps when they're finally flush? The sound he makes when Derek drags his nails down one thigh. 

The look on his face. Goddamn.

Those little things? Derek never expected.

That, and it's much harder to kiss when you're smiling.

Stiles is slobbering, more labrador than style, and the harder he gets, the more his mouth goes sideways, which Derek decides is understandable, sure; it's a lot to take in all at once. So he cuts them both a break. Catches the kid’s neck in his free hand and holds him, aims both of them a little towards still. 

He tugs Stiles' head back, just enough to meet his eyes and says: "Hey. Hold on. Let me drive."

Stiles is hot and stupid above him, his heart zooming Andretti and his eyes softer than Derek's ever seen. 

"Ok," he says, this happy drunk slur. "But you call my dick a stick shift, and I’m out."

His lips are hot, too, even redder than his face, and he lets Derek do what he wants for awhile: long, sober kisses that stay out of the deep end, sweet easy things that turn Stiles, in time, into sponge. Derek holds him as he sinks, dams them up in that little space in the dirt. The one they're carving into their own.

It's good. 

It is so profoundly strange.

He lets Stiles suck on his tongue while he gets a hand under the kid's coat, too thick for springtime. His fingers burrow under layer upon layer of shirt and he can't remember what color they are or what they feel like because Stiles' skin there is fucking amazing. It gives, it hums, it makes Stiles moan when he scratches, little featherweight things that won't leave a mark, and Derek can imagine his lips there, his mouth, the way that skin will feel between his teeth, the fucking chorus Stiles will shout when that happens. 

But he likes this, too, the way that Stiles feels on top of him, around him like this. The way his whole body shakes when Derek kicks them back into a grind, gets their hips working in time. Even likes the way he squeaks when the angle's just right, when Derek's cock bumps his through denim and denim and—

"Oh my god!" Stiles yelps, his head up like a shot. "Is that your cock?!"

Derek snaps his hips and tries not to snarl. "No _shit_."

The moron pulls away, actually sits all the way up 'til he's hovering. No, Derek's brain fumbles. More like straddling. Him. And staring right the fuck at his crotch. 

"Um," Stiles says, fingers tap-dancing on his own thighs. "Derek. You think I could—? Can I—?"

The noise that breaks out of Derek's chest then makes the bunnies start running, the birds take right to the skies.

"Yes," his voice says in there somewhere. "Please."

Stiles makes a face like it's Christmas and by the time he's got the damn zipper down, it might as well be New Year's, as ready as Derek is to be touched.

"Huh," Stiles says. 

He's gentle. Handles the weight like he's curious, smears a thumb fat over the head. Derek watches him, grits his teeth; a fuck-me-now car crash, this boy. 

"Huh," Stiles says again, louder. "Dude. Where are your thorns?"

"Um," Derek pants as the kid makes a fist and starts to pull, just a little. A test. It makes Derek feel like a science experiment, a Bunson burner turned all the way light. "I'm sorry. What?"

Stiles huffs, leans his head down so that his words curl under his fingers and slip over the shaft. "Your dick, idiot. C’mon. Where are the spikes?" 

He squeezes, pulls a little harder, and the look on his face screams _for science_. "You gotta get harder, or what?" He laughs, this puff of hot air that makes Derek see stars. "Not sure how much more you can get, though. I mean, this thing’s pretty great as it is. Great as in large. Pretty as in gorgeous, or is that even something you can say about a cock? I mean, it seems apropos in this case, but indicative of some broader phenomenon? Who can say?"

Something in Derek's brain turns over in the babble, some moldy corner of lore, and no. No. That can't be what Stiles is—?

"I don't—" Derek manages, pawing at Stiles' knees. "Stiles. Jesus fuck. Stop for a second. Christ."

"Hmm?" the kid says, lifting his head, and ok, now Derek can think. Kind of.

He crosses his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Werewolves," he says, sort of patient, "do not. Have barbs. In their dicks. So there will be nothing pointy coming out of my cock. Alright?"

Stiles frowns, his fingers still moving. "Aw," he says, disappointed. "Really? You sure?"

"Am I—?!"

"No, it's just," Stiles says, and he's flushing again, but different now. Embarrassed. "See. I did some research, ok, and while there wasn't wholehearted agreement, there seemed to be general consensus on this point, um. That your"—he waggles Derek's cock like it's a fucking stuffed monkey—"Tom Johnson here, you know, as a werewolf's, would be, uh. Barbed. Like a cat's or something. You know."

It's way harder to laugh when you're turned on like crazy and the boy you might be in love with is jerking your cock, but damn, Derek finds. It isn't impossible.

He drops his head with a thump and howls, laughter tugged out of him with every slide of Stiles' hand. His body bows like the curve of a cello and he freaking guffaws.

"Oh my god," he wheezes after a minute. "Stiles. What the hell." 

"What," Stiles says, a little defensive. "Hey. I can't help it if the internet's wrong. It's crowdsourcing. It happens."

Derek props himself on his elbows, still grinning like a loon. "What, did you google _how to fuck a werewolf_? Come on. You know better than that."

Stiles looks shifty. "Um. Of course not." He clears his throat. "It was _how to date a werewolf_ , dude. I didn't want to assume."

"You didn't want to—?" Derek snorts, and now the smile's making his face hurt. "Stiles. You're an idiot." 

He pops up a hand and cups the kid's jaw. Rubs a thumb at the hinge until Stiles looks down, meets his eye. "An idiot," Derek says, the words sluggy like caramel, "who's driving me crazy, and if you don't make me come in the nearest fucking foreseeable future, I'll tie you up in a tree and leave you here for hungriest ravens."

Stiles laughs, smells sweet with relief as he shoves Derek all the way flat. "A surprisingly specific threat,” he hums, “Whose creativity, I'm guessing, is supposed to make it more terrifying. But, eh, I give it a 7 at best."

He crushes Derek's retort with a kiss, a turn of tongue on the top of his cock, and fine, Derek's happy to concede. Especially when the kid leans back and reaches one-handed for his own fly.

"Please," Derek groans, or just thinks really loud; he isn't totally sure. All the happy is fogging his brain.

But he sees clear enough when Stiles' jeans get open, when his dick drops into his hand, when the look on his face goes from electric arousal to something sort of more cataclysmic.

"Oh my fuck," Stiles grits, his eyes jumping from one fist to the other, to the push-me-pull-you of two cocks in kind. "Oh Jesus. Oh fuck. Derek. I—"

He works them both at once, or tries to, his hands ragged flying, and if just watching makes Derek feel feral, he can't imagine what it's like for Stiles to hold on to, to touch.

"Oh my god," Stiles groans, his breath a tornado. His fingers drop away from Derek, demolished, and snag down deep in his thigh. Holding on for dear fucking life. "Derek. No. Shit. I’m just—"

When he comes, he smells like burnt copper. Rust and smoke as he shoots all over Derek's cock, grinning and moaning and trying to kiss all at the same time.

It's kind of amazing.

They make out while Derek strokes himself through the slide of Stiles' come, rubs his dick against Stiles' stomach. Drips through kiss after slow-motion kiss.

Stiles' breath hitches, in the end. That's what does it. A little hop in his heart as he whispers Derek's name.

It’s easier than you’d think to come when you’re laughing, when you’re smeary with something that Derek remembers as joy.

He drifts down, after, Stiles’ face jammed in his shoulder. Winds his way back to the earth. To Stiles. To the sunshine on some stupid Tuesday when they're out looking for plants and nothing is trying to kill them.

It's weird.

No, see, it's fantastic.

"I can't believe you thought my dick was a hedgehog," Derek sighs, after a while. He shifts the kid to his hip and tips his head back. Bares his throat. 

Stiles leans in, licks spirals behind Derek's ear. "Actually,” he murmurs, "I was thinking more porcupine."

Derek grins at the treetops. "Ok, my cock as any small woodland creature. Jesus. I think I'm insulted."

"Hey, hey. Easy mistake," Stiles mutters. "Anybody could make it. It's an assumption grounded in science, ok? With the right angle, even I can be fooled."

"Uh huh."

Stiles wiggles, and Derek can feel him beaming. "I crave knowledge, dude. I can't help it if you weren't forthcoming, if I had to ask the world at large with its admittedly limited understanding for some guidance."

"But you were willing to risk it," Derek says. Realizes, as his fingers drowse down Stiles' back. "My cock having quills."

Stiles sits up a little and gives him this beautiful smile, somewhere between wicked and shy. "Let’s just say,” he chirps, “that I was prepared to put up with a lot. Many, varied, and unusual whatevers in and around your junk."

Derek sighs. Lets the sun close his eyes. "Do I even want to know?"

"Eh." He feels Stiles shrug. "Nah. It's not important. Anyway. I like surprises."

“Huh,” Derek says. Realizes. “Yeah. Me, too.”

"Anyway," Stiles says again, curling all the way in. His arm snakes down Derek's chest and catches, finds someplace to hold. "You're a snuggler. I totally called that. Gets me back to par for the day."

“Should I be concerned with how much forethought you’ve put into this? Please tell me you didn’t draw diagrams.”

“Pffffttt,” Stiles says with a soggy flip of his hand. “Hardly.”

He falls asleep with his hand in the air, still waving. Derek can hear the wind through his fingers, see the shadows over his wrist that say the day’s growing later. That Tuesday’s drifting away.

The moments after this, he can anticipate.

Some fighting. Some blood.

Somebody will try and kill them. Again. Somebody will probably die.

It’s the way of things, as he knows them.

But this moment, now, isn’t at all what he expected. 

It’s safe, he decides, to close his eyes for a while. Push his face into Stiles’ hair and revel in that weird while it lasts.

He expects the rest of the world will wait. If only for a little while.


End file.
